


Angel In Blue Jeans

by MsThunderFrost



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Burns, Cute Kids, Hard Time, Hospitalization, Kid Fic, M/M, Pain, Self Confidence Issues, Self-Esteem Issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-16
Updated: 2014-07-19
Packaged: 2018-02-09 03:32:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1967388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MsThunderFrost/pseuds/MsThunderFrost
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rumlow struggles with his new reality after being blown out of SHIELD HQ. Steve struggles with helping him to see the light at the end of the tunnel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

"It's going to be alright." Steve attempted to smile reassuringly, before managing to find a small sliver of skin that  _wasn't_  covered in burn cream or wrapped in heavy-duty gauze to offer his husband a reassuring pat.  
  
The truth was, Brock Rumlow looked like  _shit_  - and that was putting it kindly. While it definitely could have been worse (he was still alive, and that meant a lot, especially considering his forty-story fall into hard, unforgiving water), the prognosis was definitely bleak.   
  
He'd suffered first, second, and third degree burns to approximately sixty percent of his body. In addition to this, smoke inhalation had resulted in considerable damage to his lungs. The blast and resulting collision had landed him a broken arm, a shattered jaw, and a concussion.   
  
And now, lying here on that painfully white hospital bed, breathing with the help of a ventilator, jaw wired shut to help it heal, he stared at Rumlow stared at Steve with dazed light blue eyes.   
  
"I bet your wondering about the hospital gown, huh?" Steve picked at the blue and white checked fabric hanging loosely off of his frame. "I got pretty banged up... but I'll be okay, I guess. Thanks to the serum, the doc said I'll be released in a few days."  
  
Rumlow didn't make a sound. The ugly groan of the ventilator had shivers chasing down Steve's spine, memories of various hospitals and sicknesses that had plagued him in his youth springing to the forefront, unwarranted and unwelcome. There was no guarantee that Brock's lungs would ever be healthy enough to function fully on their own again.  
  
The light blue eyes suddenly drifted away, instead turning and focusing on the ceiling. Steve followed them for a moment, then, "I'm not mad. At least... not anymore."  
  
Rumlow turned his head toward him slightly, and Steve winced as, with some difficulty, one eyebrow raised.   
  
"I was... at first. Furious, even. Sam asked if I wanted to come see you and I just about bit his head off. You had lied to me... and I thought that that was one thing we'd always have - the truth."  
  
That eyebrow didn't fall, and Steve could read the question lurking in Rumlow's eyes.  _So what changed?_  
  
Steve's smile turned soft, apologetic... almost  _regretful._  
  
"The doctor came in to see me. I'm still your emergency contact, remember?"  
  
The doctor had been kind, but blunt. She told it like it was, and although Steve was still furious, heartbroken,  _betrayed_... nobody deserved the kind of suffering that Brock must be enduring. In short, he forgave him because that kind of suffering... no-one should have to go through it alone.  
  
And he sat there, attempting to convey this to Brock. Brock, whom he'd loved, trusted,  _respected_... and he  _still_  loved him, yes, but it was different now. That trust was clouded, polluted, and he didn't know if he could trust him with his back without worrying about being stabbed in it.  
  
It really didn't help that Brock was looking at him like he was - with those sad, hurt blue eyes. He was hurting in more ways than one.  
  
"I still love you." Steve said softly.  
  
The eyes softened, closed for a beat... two... three... Steve wondered if he'd fallen asleep, and then they re-opened. He looked to be the thankful, relieved, even, and then his eyes closed once more. Steve gently touched that uninjured strip of flesh again, the smile coming a little easier this time.  
  
"I'll let you sleep now. I'll try to come back tomorrow, though." Steve assured. He wished that he could kiss him, but his face was heavily bandaged, and he didn't want to hurt him.   
  
So instead he called the nurse, and asked her to take him back to his room.

* * *

Several things loomed over Steve's head as sat in his hospital bed, watching through half-lidded eyes as the doctor carefully changed the dressings on his wound. The most prevalent of which was the fact that Rumlow had a DNR. Those three little letters hung heavily over him as Rumlow tottered on the brink of life and death with every painful breath he sucked in.  
  
"You're almost healed." The doctor said, a hint of awe-struck wonder in his tone. "At this rate, I might just be able to send you home tomorrow."  
  
The idea of returning home alone, to a cold, lonesome bed, without Brock, seemed practically unbearable. He smiled anyhow. "Thank you, doctor."  
  
"You'll still have to take it easy, though. Even with your healing capabilities, I'd say you won't be totally up to par for another two weeks. So kick back... put your feet up... take a load off."   
  
Steve laughed hollowly. "Not sure that I know how to do that, sir."  
  
The doctor scribbled some notes down on his clipboard, before hooking the clipboard onto the foot of the bed. "The nurse on duty will see to it that you have everything you need. You know where the call button is."  
  
He did. But what he needed couldn't be brought to him. What he needed was downstairs in ICU, under constant surveillance. He didn't want to think that this was how three years of marriage would end. But he'd seen Brock's condition for himself.   
  
The door shut as the doctor took his leave, and Steve was suddenly plunged into deafening silence. He stared at the wall with dark, conflicted eyes, suddenly plagued by the idea that Brock wouldn't be coming home. Even if he survived the burns, he couldn't breathe on his own. His lungs were like scorched paper. And there was a DNR.   
  
What would he do if he lost Rumlow? He wasn't under any hopelessly romantic delusions about what Rumlow meant to him - but he  _did_  know and recognize three things for certain:  
  
1) Rumlow was the first person on the STRIKE team to welcome him to the inner-workings of SHIELD - and when the leader took a liking to him, the others followed suit.   
  
2) Rumlow was his friend first, his lover second. That fact had always been incredibly important to Steve - he needed to be sure that he knew his partner intimately, that he could trust him implicitly, and that they could successfully mesh on one level before taking it to the next.  
  
3) Rumlow didn't want to hurt him in that elevator. You could lie with your mouth, but not with your eyes. And those pretty blue eyes had been hurting, just like they were hurting now.  
  
"Angel..." he trailed off softly, thinking about Rumlow's sweet little girl. How would he tell her that her Daddy might not be coming home?  
  
There was a knock on the door, and Steve almost jumped out of his skin. He turned, catching the nurse's shy smile. "You have some visitors, Mr. Rogers."  
  
All at once, a little bundle in blue jeans shorts and a pink Hello Kitty t-shirt tossed herself at his hospital bed, and he caught her just seconds before she missed and catapulted to the floor. Her black ponytails tickled the bare skin of his arms, which were the only parts of him below the neck visible from within the blue checked hospital gown.   
  
"Papa." She grinned up at him, her little arms wrapped around her stuffed gray tiger. "Papa feeling better?"  
  
"Much." He smiled, and then, watching as Sam entered the room, he nodded to him. "Thank you for bringing her."  
  
"When're you coming home?" Sam asked, stuffing his hands into his pockets.  
  
"As early as tomorrow, the doctor said." This was met by a cheer from the little girl, who crushed the stuffed cat tightly to her chest. "Have you been a good girl for Uncle Sam?"  
  
She almost looked offended, puffing out her bottom lip dramatically. "O' course, Papa! Angel  _always_  good girl."

"Well, I'm very glad to hear it." He ruffled her ponytails, planting a quick kiss on her right temple. "I've missed you."   
  
"Angel missed Papa too." And then, her eyes lit up. Suddenly, she started shimmying off of Steve's lap. Catching on, he carefully set her down onto the floor, and she took off like a rocket.   
  
Steve watched as she riffled through her little backpack (he hadn't realized that Sam had been holding it this entire time), and by the looks of it, was barely refraining herself from throwing everything that she  _didn't_  need all over the floor.   
  
Finally, with a triumphant shout, she produced two pieces of slightly crumpled paper. Quickly racing back over to the bed, Steve helped her back up onto his lap. Looking over the two papers with the critical eye of a not-so artistically inclined four-year-old, she finally selected one and handed it to Steve with a pleased grin.  
  
"Angel made this for Papa." She said. It was a picture of Steve in his Captain America uniform... but he wasn't the only one in the picture.  
  
There was a three-headed snake, and from the looks of it, Steve's shield was about to come down on one of the heads. It was undoubtedly a hydra, but the symbolism, unfortunately, did not end there. In one of the mouths was Brock Rumlow, long, thick fangs impaled in his stomach. He hung there limply, like a piece of raw meat.  
  
Steve looked at the little girl, suddenly feeling concern, like fear, form a heavy knot in his stomach. "Sweetie... where did you get the idea to draw this?"  
  
"You don't like it?" She puffed out her bottom lip, tears welling in her light blue eyes - she had her Daddy's eyes.  
  
"No, no... I  _love_  it." He forced his best smile. "I just... where did you come up with the idea for such a masterpiece?"  
  
This was where Sam stepped back in. "Yeah... your not gonna like the answer to that." He sighed, then, "As it turns out, Pierce had to threaten your husband into joining HYDRA."  
  
Sam went on to explain that Pierce had, in his own roundabout way, given Rumlow an ultimatum. Either he joined HYDRA, where his unique skill-set could be put to good use... or, he could stand against HYDRA, and Steve and Angel would be in the first round of victims for Zola's Algorithm. Steve might have  _some_  chance of survival, but Angel...  
  
Angel looked up at him with watery eyes, and asked, "Papa doesn't like the picture?"  
  
But he couldn't answer. Instead, he asked a question on top of her question, "How did you know about this, Angel?"  
  
But putting pressure on her to answer only caused her to clam up, and she started lazily picking at the fur on her stuffed cat. Sam shrugged, "I got the same response."  
  
Steve looked at the picture, feeling a new kind of hurt spreading through him like a slow-acting poison, causing everything in it's path to shut down one by one. It was like he couldn't think, couldn't breathe.   
  
If a child's picture was to be believed - and he'd always known that Angel knew a lot more than she let on - than Brock had done everything to protect them. He might have gone about it the wrong way, but fear tends to make people think and act irrationally.  
  
And now he was going to die in that hospital bed, alone, for getting his wires a little crossed along the way...  
  
"I love the picture, Angel, I really do." Reaching over with some difficulty, he tacked it up onto the little cork-board over his bedside table. "See? I love it so much I want _everyone_  to see it."  
  
"Really?" She smiled brightly, before handing him another picture. "Can you give this one to Daddy for me?"  
  
"Sure I can." He took it from her, placing it on the bedside table for temporary safekeeping.  
  
They talked for a little while after that, but the elephant in the room made things awkward and more than a little uncomfortable. When they left, Steve kissed the little girl on the temple again and waved goodbye as she left hand-in-hand with Sam.   
  
And he surprised himself when he made good on the doctor's earlier claim to calling for the nurse, asking for her to take Angel's picture down to the ICU for Brock. 

* * *

The doctor was true to his word. Early the next day, Steve recieved word that he was going to be released that afternoon. And while he was excited to be leaving (and to finally be wearing something other than the stupid blue checked hospital gown), he couldn't help but feel as if he was leaving Brock behind...  
  
After he recieved his discharge instructions, he was met by Sam and Angel in the front lobby. Angel raced over to him and he lifted her into his arms, kissing her cheek and smiling as she giggled, little feet kicking in the air. If there  _was_  to be one light at the end of the tunnel, it would be that he would be heading home to his Angel.  
  
And when Angel asked the dreaded question, "When will Daddy be coming home, Papa?"  
  
Steve lied. He lied through his teeth. Because he knew that, what might soon be the truth, would break the little girl. "Soon, sweetie. He'll be home soon."


	2. Chapter Two

When he received the news that Brock was to be taken off of the ventilator, he’d initially felt a sharp stab of fear, thinking that the only machine keeping his husband alive was about to be taken away from him. The doctor had quickly quelled his fears, however, explaining that, thanks to a new medicinal treatment, the charred lung tissue had begun to repair itself. He was now able to breathe on his own.

 

And for the first time in what felt like forever, Steve felt that he could breathe as well.

 

* * *

Steve knocked on the door to Brock’s hospital room - he’d been moved out of ICU to his own private room on the third floor - watching as his husband channel surfed with his good hand. “Want some company?”

 

Brock didn’t turn to look at him. Couldn’t. His face was still heavily bandaged, and so was his neck. A heavy-duty white brace stood stark against his scorched flesh, helping the once dislocated vertebrae to heal correctly. “It’s a free country.” He drawled, his voice dry and hoarse.

 

Crossing over to the seat beside the bed, he took in the small, private room. An en-suite bathroom… a window overlooking the private hospital gardens… fresh-picked flowers sitting on the bedside table…

 

Jabbing a thumb in their general direction, he enquired, “Who brought you those?”

 

A sigh, “Does it matter?”

 

The television cut off rather unceremoniously, plunging them into total silence. Steve looked his husband over, and then offered, “You look better.”

 

“Let’s just cut to the chase, okay?” Rumlow shot back, tossing the remote away and glaring at Steve. “You’re not here to bullshit me about how I look and how well I’m progressing. Neither of us can bullshit about it - I’m in a bad way and I know it. Don’t patronize me.” A pause, then, “Why are you here?”

 

Instead of answering, Steve took the styrofoam cup full of water and directed Rumlow to take the straw between his lips. After giving him the look of death, he did so begrudgingly. Chapped lips closed around the cool plastic, and barely-cool liquid spilled over his dry, aching tongue.

 

Honestly, he didn’t know why he was here. Did he really think that everything that had gone wrong between them would be fixed by his little tell-all session? Was he really that naive? Rumlow pulled away and Steve kept the cup frozen in midair for a moment, as if waiting for Rumlow to change his mind and take another sip. Then he sat it on the little rolling tray and took a seat.

 

They sat in silence for several moments, and Steve found himself staring at the gauze wrapped tightly around Brock’s skin. Even with the morphine drip directly hooked into his IV, he was still in unimaginable pain. Steve wanted to reach for his good hand, but his hand was on the switch for the morphine.

 

“How’s the pain?” Steve asked, watching as Rumlow hit the button to release more morphine into the IV. The tension in his brow did not lessen, and even the morphine couldn’t help him now.

 

Once again, this time a little bit softer, “Does it really matter?”

 

“The doctor says that you might be able to come home soon. It depends on how well your burns are healing.” Steve said. He placed his hand on the edge of the hospital bed, careful to make sure that he wasn’t touching Rumlow.

 

Cold blue eyes met his own, and Rumlow said, “I’m not coming home.”

 

The words hit him like a ton of bricks to the stomach, and suddenly he was faced with the brutal reality of the DNR once more. Rumlow didn’t make claims offhandedly like that. What he said, he meant - one way or another, he wouldn’t be coming home. Steve felt tears burn in his eyes, unbidden and unwelcome.

 

“What do you mean, you’re not coming home? You have your daughter… our daughter to think about! How am I supposed to tell her that her Daddy isn’t coming home?” Despite himself, Steve felt that edge of hysteria coming on.

 

“You’ll think of something.” He answered confidently, dryly. “She’s young… she’ll recover a lot faster than you think.” Unfeeling blue eyes looked over the gauze covering his body, “At least… a lot faster than if she sees the monster that her father’s become.”

 

“You’re not a monster.” The immediate response was received about as well as could be expected.

 

“Do you live inside here?” He gestured to his body as best he could with his good hand. Steve shook his head. “Every second, it’s like walking through the fucking sun. My skin simultaneously feels like it’s melting and turning to ash. The explosion is still ringing in my ears, and it is always present. I can still taste blood on my tongue.” He was breathing heavily, voice rising to fever pitch. And then it dropped. “I’m a monster, and hell on earth is what I deserve for what I’ve done!”

 

“You’re not a monster.” Steve said again, attempting to force himself to remain calm.

 

He sighed, all of the tension running out of his body like water. “Why are you even here?”

 

* * *

The visits went on like that for quite awhile… until they started to dwindle from twice a week to once a week, and then once every two weeks… and then when he got around to it. And it sounded heartless, and maybe a little callous, but Brock wanted to push him away, and Steve was allowing himself to be pushed.

 

As time progressed, his condition did improve. Gauze bandages were slowly unraveled and wires were slowly removed… skin grafts were applied to areas where the burns were healing slowly, or wouldn’t heal on their own… he was eased off of the morphine and moved onto over-the-counter pain killers. Steve was informed of these changes by phone, but rarely made it in person to see the full effect himself.

 

“Papa?” Angel looked up at him one day, big blue eyes filled with childish interest.

 

“What is it, sweetie?” Steve was sketching a scene for their latest mission - if he couldn’t be out in the field, he could at least help them with understanding the positioning of the scene of the incident.

 

She pulled a cherry lolly out of her mouth, and staring at the red candy, asked, “If Daddy dies, will you get married again?” She paused for a beat, then continued, “‘Cause that’s what Daddy did after Mommy died. He met you and you got married.”

 

Slowly setting down his sketchbook and pencil, he patted his knee. “C’mere, Angel.” She came over, taking a seat on his lap. “What makes you think that your Daddy is going to die?”

 

“‘Cause he got blown out of the building.” She said matter-of-factly. “Uncle Sam had it on the TV, only he didn’t know I was there. He got blown out of the building and is all burned up, like logs in a fire. Only Daddys aren’t supposed to burn.”

 

Steve blinked. The kid certainly had a blunt way with words, he’d give her that. “You’re Daddy isn’t gonna die, okay? He’s just a little banged up, is all. Nothing to worry about.”

 

She seemed to accept this, popping the lolly back into her mouth and turning to watch the television - it was muted, but one really didn’t need sound when Looney Tunes was on anyhow. Steve went back to his sketching, and all was peaceful and quiet for a few moments. Then -

 

“You and Daddy aren’t gonna get a divorce, are you?” She asked worriedly.

 

The pencil just about flew out of Steve’s hand. “Where did you learn what divorce is?”

 

She explained that a friend from school had explained it as simply an un-marriage, where two people decided they didn’t want to be together any longer. She went on to elaborate that Mommy and Daddy were getting ready to divorce before Mommy died, because they didn’t love each other anymore.

 

“And why do you think that Daddy and I are going to be getting a divorce?” He brushed a hand through her loose black locks, keeping her eyes as she spoke. Eye-contact was vital right now.

 

She shrugged. “You never visit Daddy anymore, and he doesn’t want to talk to me.” As she said that, she looked down. If he wasn’t mistaken, he was sure that he saw tears gathering in her eyes. “He doesn’t want us anymore. That means you’re getting a divorce.”

 

And just like that, she dissolved into fitful sobs. Steve barely had the presence of mind to take the lolly out of her mouth before she choked on it. Holding her close, she buried her little face in his shoulder, sobbing into his shoulder all of the tears that she hadn’t cried since this entire mess began. She’d certainly been holding out on him. Now, he was worried. How much else was she holding inside?

 

She wore herself out before he could tell her that they weren’t getting a divorce, before he could promise her that her Daddy wasn’t dying… she was out cold in minutes, all of her energy expended in that one outburst. He held her for a moment more, and then he took her into her bedroom. Flipping on the light on the way inside, he maneuvered around toys, games, and dolls to make it to the bed.

 

Tossing the blankets back, he set her down on the mattress, bringing the blankets up to her chin. She looked so sweet… so innocent… so incorruptible, lying there upon the bed, hidden away under a mess of blankets. He resolved to bring up the matter tomorrow, after she’d been well-rested and both had a clearer head.

  
They never did bring up the matter again. 


End file.
